Now That She's Gone (18 page)

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-NINE

B
irdy Waterman was about to eat a turkey and Swiss sandwich when Kendall let herself into the forensic pathologist's always-strange-smelling autopsy suite.

“How can you eat here?”

“You have to eat somewhere, Kendall.”

“Yes, but . . . here?”

“This place is cleaner than any restaurant in town, if you must know.”

“I'm sure it is, but it just seems weird to have lunch down here.”

Birdy pointed to the ceiling.

“Staff upstairs is having a farewell celebration for Peg's retirement. You know how much I hate to say goodbye to anyone. I'm here to get a little work done, and, yes, to hide out a little.”

“Don't let me stop you from your anti-celebration. Go ahead and eat.”

Birdy took a small bite. “Want some?”

“No. No thanks.”

“How's your day going?”

“Not great. Not awful. Somewhere in the middle, Birdy.”

“Most of my days fall somewhere in the middle too.”

Kendall sat down on a visitor's chair next to Birdy's desk. She eyed the sandwich while Birdy nibbled on it.

“It grosses me out that you keep your lunch in the chiller with the dead bodies,” Kendall said.

Birdy laughed. “I don't do that. We have a refrigerator for personal use. I just told you that because, well, I knew it would be fun for you to mull that over.”

“I've been doing all the follow-up on the Frazier case. Talked with the mom, the younger daughter. Talked with one of the friend's mothers. Trying to get a clearer understanding of what happened four years ago.”

“Hard to do, isn't it?”

Kendall nodded. “Yes, extremely.”

“Even cold tracks on the snow eventually melt.”

“Is that a Makah saying or something?”

“No. Just something I thought right now. Are you sure you don't want to share my sandwich?”

Kendall shook her head. “No. I'm sure.”

“Tell me what you have so far. Maybe talking it out will help.”

“Mayberry didn't do a damn thing with this case,” Kendall said.

“Honestly, I was glad to see him go. I would have actually attended his farewell luncheon if I'd been asked.”

Kendall took off her jacket. “His reports are about as thin as that cheese.”

“Deli thin,” Birdy said.

“All right. Enough of the sandwich.”

“You brought it up.”

“I know. I'm sorry. Back to what Mayberry wrote in his report. He said that Alyssa Woodley had plans to do something with Katy after school, but those plans fell through.”

“Right, I remember reading that.”

“But when I talked to Katy's sister, she said that Alyssa and a couple of Katy's friends did come over that day and pick her up.”

“It's been four years,” Birdy said. “Maybe she's mixed up the date, the sequence of what happened when.”

Kendall thought a moment. It was possible. “Maybe. I don't think so. She seems to remember a lot of family things. She's got a list of a million reasons why she hates her mother, for example.”

“So do I,” Birdy said.

Natalie Waterman, Birdy's mother, had found many opportunities to worm her insidious way into many of Kendall and Birdy's conversations.

“I know, Birdy,” Kendall said. “But you had reason to.”

Birdy set down her sandwich. “Not really. My mom—such as she was—was doing the best that she could. Her best wasn't that great. No argument there. But it's what she could do at the time. I'm doing the best I can with Elan right now. Who knows what he'll say about me when he's grown?”

“He'll say you are the best thing that ever happened to him.”

“I hope so.”

Kendall got up.

“We barely chatted. Where you going to now?”

“I've got a meeting with Cody's teacher. Then I'm going to track down Alyssa.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Oh, it will be. It always is.”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY

K
endall parked her white SUV in front of the Cascade School. It had just rained and the parking lot shimmered with iridescent swirls of oil. An old cherry tree had recently fallen victim to some kind of rot and had been cut down by a maintenance worker, and its silvery, smooth bark also shimmered in the wetness of the downpour. Kendall made her way across the parking lot, dodging puddles, to the school's front door. Ms. Donahue, Cody's teacher, was waiting for her.

“You are always right on time,” she said.

“I know how important your work is.”

Candace Donahue had been teaching children with special needs of all kinds since the early 1980s. She was nearing retirement and anyone who worked with her was dreading the day that she'd be gone. She wore a uniform of sorts, always a twinset and skirt. That day it was a heather gray ensemble, which matched her hair, spun up in a bun, to perfection.

She led Kendall into a conference room.

“I'm glad you come in person. Cody is very important to me and I'm concerned.”

Kendall could feel her heart sink a little lower. This was not going to be a happy meeting, not like the last one in which the teacher wanted to let her know that Cody was finding more comfortable ways to interact and socialize with other children. That had always been the biggest concern. His autism was not debilitating. He could function fine on his own. He could read. He could do schoolwork. He just couldn't interact with others, especially those he barely know. At home, Cody was almost just like any other kid. But not at school. Not out in public.

“Something's wrong, isn't it?” Candace said. “I'm not trying to pry.”

Kendall knew what she was getting at. She also could easily see that there was a connection between certain aspects of Cody's behavior and his suddenly gone-from-the-scene father.

“My husband has a new job, one that requires him to be away for an extended period.”

“In a way, that's kind of a relief, Kendall.”

“How do you mean?”

“I was thinking it was something serious, something more permanent. Cody misses his dad terribly and he's been acting out a little because of it.”

“What's he been doing?”

“He threw a cardboard box at another child. He didn't hit her, but she screamed like he had and that only made it worse.”

“I'm sorry. I had no idea.”

“There have been a few other incidents and, well, I've been doing this long enough to know that when there's a change on the home front it often manifests itself into unusual behavior here at school.”

“What can I do?”

“Reassure him, Kendall. Let him know that his father will be home soon and that everything will be back to normal. Cody likes and really
needs
consistency in his life. It's like a building with one brick removed. . . it will stand fine for a time, but at some point it will topple.”

“I'm so sorry for all of this, Candace.”

“Sorry? You don't have to be sorry. Just love your little boy as you always have, but remind him that his father is only a phone call away.”

Kendall nodded. She wished it were that easy. She wanted to tell Candace Donahue the truth, but she was unsure exactly what that was. The two women talked awhile about Cody's remarkable progress with reading and that he continued to show a strong ability in art. His paintings were always a narrative of what was going on in his life. Lately, they were in shades of black and red and showed images of a family disconnected.

Candace slid one over to Kendall.

It almost made Kendall gasp. The rendering of their Harper house was perfect down to the crooked screen door. In the window were three figures: a woman, a man, and a boy. The man's face was smeared and torn as if Cody had sought to erase him from the picture.

“It doesn't take a psychologist to see what he's saying here,” Candace said, her finger tapping lightly on the edge of the paper.

Kendall met the veteran teacher's gaze. “No. I guess it doesn't.”

“He just needs some reassurance.”

“All right. I understand. And, Candace, I thank you so much.”

“It's fine. That's why I'm here.”

Kendall got up, looked down at the drawing, and did her best to hold it together. By the time she got to her car, she was already dialing Steven.

Again, voice mail.

“Steven, I just left Cody's school. I don't know what's going on with you. Why are you being so distant? Are you seeing someone? There, I said it. Do you have someone else now? Do you not want to be a family with me and Cody anymore? He's falling apart. I'm falling apart. Don't you love us?”

She hung up.

She sat there in the parking lot wishing she could do that call again. Wishing that she could dial him without the frustration and anger in her voice. If he was seeing someone, wouldn't he have the decency to tell her? She knew him. She loved him. Steven Stark was not a philanderer. He was a husband. A father. A family man.

She dialed again.

“Steven, I'm sorry about that last message. I'm scared for us. I don't know what's going on. That's all. Cody and I love you. Call me tonight. I'll be at home waiting for you.”

The sheriff's detective turned the key and started for the office. As days go, this one was one of the worst. She'd come up empty on learning anything really new about Katy Frazier, and even worse—her son was drawing pictures that pointed to despair and abandonment issues. None of which Kendall wanted to believe were true.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-ONE

P
andora hung up her phone and looked over at the bed.

“How was she?” Wyatt Ogilvie asked as he rolled over on his side to take in the view of his lover.

“Stupid, but that's pretty much what we get stuck with when you do a stupid cable show.”

“Come back here. I'm ready for another round.”

“Please, Wyatt. Don't kid yourself. You couldn't get it up again without a double dose of Viagra.”

“Don't be like that, Pandy.”

“Don't call me that.”

“Jesus. What's wrong now?”

“I'm thinking.”

“You're smart and sexy. That's what I like about you, babe.”

Pandora sat on the edge of the bed. She kept her eyes focused on the window. The tops of the Olympic Mountains beckoned like one of those antique saws her mother painted with scenes of the West. She'd come so far from her past, but she wasn't where she wanted to be. Not by a long shot.

“Come on, baby, come back to bed,” Wyatt said.

“Can't you see that I'm upset?” She turned around and glared at him.

“What?”

“What? You talk like a five-year-old, Wyatt. I need at least one of the men in my life to be a man. God knows my husband is weak. But at least he isn't obtuse.”

Wyatt shifted his weight and sat up.

“Look, I know what you want, but it's out of my hands.”

“Really? That's the best you've got?”

“What do you want me to do, Pandy?”

“Maybe you have early-onset dementia, Wyatt! Maybe that's why nothing really tracks with you. I keep repeating myself over and over and each time I do, you act like it's some revelation for the very first time.”

“I know this is about the show.”

“That's a start. I can't do this much longer, Wyatt. You can. You've maxed out on where you're going in life. I'm different. I'm only beginning. You've had your time in the sun.”

Wyatt, who'd heard this tirade more than a hundred times before, held his tongue for a moment, letting the anger fade.

“What are we going to do about it? The show is what it is.”

“If you really loved me you'd think a little harder and come up with a way to make something happen for me. I need something really big to happen. I need liftoff if I'm going to attract the big money.”

“I've talked with Juliana several times.”

“Juliana? That nitwit? She couldn't produce herself out of a paper bag, Wyatt. She can barely get this horrific show produced. It's tired. Lackluster. It's not catching ratings fire like those
Duck Dynasty
guys.”

“She says she's working on something really big.”

“Really? Her idea of big was to have me guest on a Food Network Halloween cake challenge. That didn't do one damn thing for my visibility. It didn't lead to anything. No
People
magazine cover. Not even a mention on Page Six for the story behind how the Dracula coffin cake blew up on the set.”

“That was a good one.”

“Is that all I get from you?”

“Sorry. But it was.”

“You are so useless.”

“Babe, give me a fighting chance. I'm doing everything I can to ensure that the series gets picked up for another season.”

Pandora shot Wyatt a disgusted look. “You think it's all about this show, don't you? You are such a small-timer. I couldn't give a crap about this show. I have a bigger, greater purpose and that means a show in front of millions, not hundreds of thousands. Sometimes you really shock me with your stupidity. How did you catch criminals in the past? Did you just get lucky and stumble on them?”

Wyatt got out of bed and put on a robe.

“I'll do something. I'll get with Juliana.”

Pandora sniffed a little. She put her hands over her face. “God, tell me why I put up with this. I have so, so much to give and I'm surrounded by incompetence. Why have you cursed me so?”

Wyatt turned on the shower.

“I hear you. I hear you. I'll do something about it if it kills me. I won't let you down.”

She watched him get into the shower. His body was far from an Adonis. His belly protruded and his back was a hairy forest. She never saw him as attractive, just someone she could use to help her get where she needed to go. He was a name. He came with baggage. He was everything that she needed to advance her dreams. The two of them made a marketable pair, hence the TV show. She didn't see any problem in having sex with him as long as he did what she wanted him to do. If he didn't get things going in a positive direction—one that would bring her the world—then she would take matters into her own hands.

Pandora got into bed and picked up her iPad. She went to her secret pin board on Pinterest and looked at the images she collected. Each was there to inspire and move her forward. A Porsche. A house in the Hamptons. A black sable bedspread. A picture of Wyatt. She kept her finger on Wyatt's photograph. So retouched. So not the creature, the
lover
, that was in the shower. She dragged his photo to the trash can. No matter what he was able to accomplish with Juliana, Pandora knew that he was never going to be the man of her dreams. He had a purpose, though. Somehow all the unpleasant sex, the sneaking around her husband's back, the lies, well . . . all of it would be worth it.

Wyatt came out of the bathroom. His hair was damp, but combed. He didn't take the time to blow it dry because Pandora had set the tempo of the day.

“Pinning something on your secret board. I like that,” he said.

“Just doing a little housecleaning, baby,” she said.

“I love you, Pandy. I would do anything for you. You know that.”

She stared hard at him. She looked at him like she was drinking him in, admiring his physique, making him feel as though she desired him.

“No,” she finally said, letting him see that her eyes had lingered over his body. “I really don't. I need you to prove it. Don't just tell me you're here for me or that you want to help make my dreams come true. Prove it. Do something. Take a risk.”

“Manifest our reality,” he said, repeating one of her favorite affirmations.

“That's right.” She set down her iPad. “Do it.”

“All right. I will,” he said.

She had him wrapped around her little finger and she knew it.

“But first, baby,” she cooed. “Come and do me.”

 

 

While Elan did his homework on the sofa in front of the TV, Birdy went about the boring but necessary task of paying the monthly bills in her office. She noticed the blinking light of the answering machine and pressed PLAY.

The voice came at her like a swift kick to the abdomen.

“I hope you and Detective Stark are enjoying your moment in the sun. It's me
,
Brenda. I'd say come and find me
,
but I don't stay still very long and neither one of you are that good. I've only started. Who is Elan? I like that name.”

There was only one Brenda who mattered right then. And, indeed, there was no other Brenda that Birdy could think of. Just the one that everyone was talking about.

She dialed Kendall.

“Just a second, Birdy,” Kendall said. “Cody wants another cup of popcorn. Movie time. Hang on.”

“What are you watching? A horror movie?”

Kendall laughed. “Hardly. He's ten.”

“Well, listen to this message on my machine,” Birdy said. After it was over, she waited for Kendall's response.

“That sounds like her.”

“It sounds like a threat. I don't like it, Kendall. Not one bit.”

Kendall looked over at Cody, who was mesmerized by the animated movie on the flat screen. “Me neither,” she said. “Bring the tape in tomorrow. We need to give it to the FBI.”

“I don't like the tone in her voice. I don't like how she mentioned Elan.”

“I agree. It isn't good,” Kendall said, hanging up. She wondered if Brenda had seen the report on CNN. She'd meant every word, but now she regretted anything that had to do with TV. TV, she thought, was nothing but bad news.
Spirit Hunters.
CNN. It didn't matter. There was no time in the sun.

Crap, I've made Brenda Nevins mad
, Kendall thought.
Never make a serial killer angry. Doing so is playing with fire. Playing with fire is something Brenda Nevins likes to do.